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A FRIEND IN NEED.
Mary left the house, and saw no one on her way. But it was
better, she said to herself, that he should lie there untended,
than be waited on by unloving hands.
The night was very dark. There was no moon, and the stars were
hidden by thick clouds. She must walk all the way to Testbridge.
She felt weak, but the fresh air was reviving. She did not know
the way so familiarly as that between Thornwick and the town, but
she would enter the latter before arriving at the common.
She had not gone far when the moon rose, and from behind the
clouds diminished the darkness a little. The first part of her
journey lay along a narrow lane, with a small ditch, a rising
bank, and a hedge on each side. About the middle of the lane was
a farmyard, and a little way farther a cottage. Soon after
passing the gate of the farmyard, she thought she heard steps
behind her, seemingly soft and swift, and naturally felt a little
apprehension; but her thoughts flew to the one hiding-place for
thoughts and hearts and lives, and she felt no terror. At the
same time something moved her to quicken her pace. As she drew
near the common, she heard the steps more plainly, still soft and
swift, and almost wished she had sought refuge in the cottage she
had just passed--only it bore no very good character in the
neighborhood. When she reached the spot where the paths united,
feeling a little at home, she stopped to listen. Behind her were
the footsteps plain enough! The same moment the clouds thinned
about the moon, and a pale light came filtering through upon the
common in front of her. She cast one look over her shoulder, saw
something turn a corner in the lane, and sped on again. She would
have run, but there was no place of refuge now nearer than the
corner of the turnpike-road, and she knew her breath would fail
her long before that. How lonely and shelterless the common
looked! The soft, swift steps came nearer and nearer.
Was that music she heard? She dared not stop to listen. But
immediately, thereupon, was poured forth on the dim air such a
stream of pearly sounds as if all the necklaces of some heavenly
choir of woman-angels were broken, and the beads came pelting
down in a cataract of hurtless hail. From no source could they
come save the bow and violin of Joseph Jasper! Where could he be?
She was so rejoiced to know that he must be somewhere near, that,
for very delight of unsecured safety, she held her peace, and had
almost stopped. But she ran on again. She was now nigh the ruined
hut with which my narrative has made the reader acquainted. In
the mean time the moon had been growing out of the clouds,
clearer and clearer. The hut came in sight. But the look of it
was somehow altered--with an undefinable change, such as might
appear on a familiar object in a dream; and leaning against the
side of the door stood a figure she could not mistake for another
than her musician. Absorbed in his music, he did not see her. She
called out, "Joseph! Joseph!" He started, threw his bow from him,
tucked his violin under his arm, and bounded to meet her. She
tried to stop, and the same moment to look behind her. The
consequence was that she fell--but safe in the smith's arms. That
instant appeared a man running. He half stopped, and, turning
from the path, took to the common. Jasper handed his violin to
Mary, and darted after him. The chase did not last a minute; the
man was nearly spent. Joseph seized him by the wrist, saw
something glitter in his other hand, and turned sick. The fellow
had stabbed him. With indignation, as if it were a snake that had
bit him, the blacksmith flung from him the hand he held. The man
gave a cry, staggered, recovered himself, and ran. Joseph would
have followed again, but fell, and for a minute or two lost
consciousness. When he came to himself, Mary was binding up his
arm.
"What a fool I am!" he said, trying to get up, but yielding at
once to Mary's prevention. "Ain't it ridic'lous now, miss, that a
man of my size, and ready to work a sledge with any smith in
Yorkshire, should turn sick for a little bit of a job with a
knife? But my father was just the same, and he was a stronger man
than I'm like to be, I fancy."
"It is no such wonder as you think," said Mary; "you have lost a
good deal of blood."
Her voice faltered. She had been greatly alarmed--and the more
that she had not light enough to get the edges of the wound
properly together.
"You've stopped it--ain't you, miss?"
"I think so."
"Then I'll be after the fellow."
"No, no; you must not attempt it. You must lie still awhile. But
I don't understand it at all! That cottage used to be a mere
hovel, without door or window! It can't be you live in it?"
"Ay, that I do! and it's not a bad place either," answered
Joseph. "That's what I went to Yorkshire to get my money for.
It's mine--bought and paid for."
"But what made you think of coming here?"
"Let's go into the smithy--house I won't presume to call it,"
said Joseph, "though it has a lean-to for the smith--and I'll
tell you everything about it. But really, miss, you oughtn't to
be out like this after dark. There's too many vagabonds about."
With but little need of the help Mary yet gave him, Joseph got
up, and led her to what was now a respectable little smithy, with
forge and bellows and anvil and bucket. Opening a door where had
been none, he brought a chair, and making her sit down, began to
blow the covered fire on the hearth, where he had not long before
"boiled his kettle" for his tea. Then closing the door, he
lighted a candle, and Mary looking about her could scarcely
believe the change that had come upon the miserable vacuity.
Joseph sat down upon his anvil, and begged to know where she had
just been, and how far she had run from the rascal. When he had
learned something of the peculiar relations in which Mary stood
to the family at Durnmelling, he began to think there might have
been something more in the pursuit than a chance ruffianly
assault, and the greater were his regrets that he had not secured
the miscreant.
"Anyhow, miss," he said, "you'll never come from there alone in
the dark again!"
"I understand you, Joseph," answered Mary, "for I know you would
not have me leave doing what I can for the poor man up there,
because of a little danger in the way."
"No, that I wouldn't, miss. That would be as much as to say you
would do the will of God when the devil would let you. What I
mean is, that here am I--your slave, or servant, or soldier, or
whatever you may please to call me, ready at your word."
"I must not take you from your work, you know, Joseph."
"Work's not everything, miss," he answered; "and it's seldom so
pressing but that--except I be shoeing a horse--I can leave it
when I choose. Any time you want to go anywhere, don't forget as
you've got enemies about, and just send for me. You won't have
long to wait till I come. But I am main sorry the rascal didn't
have something to keep him in mind of his manners."
Part of this conversation, and a good deal more, passed on their
way to Testbridge, whither, as soon as Joseph seemed all right,
Mary, who had forgotten her hunger and faintness, insisted on
setting out at once. In her turn she questioned Joseph, and
learned that, as soon as he knew she was going to settle at
Testbridge, he started off to find if possible a place in the
neighborhood humble enough to be within his reach, and near
enough for the hope of seeing her sometimes, and having what help
she might please to give him. The explanation afforded Mary more
pleasure than she cared to show. She had a real friend near her--
one ready to help her on her own ground--one who understood her
because he understood the things she loved! He told her that
already he had work enough to keep him going; that the horses he
once shod were always brought to him again; that lie was at no
expense such as in a town; and that he had plenty of time both
for his violin and his books.
When they came to the suburbs, she sent him home, and went
straight to Mr. Brett with Mr. Redmain's message. He undertook to
be at Durnmelling at the time appointed, and to let nothing
prevent him from seeing his new client.
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